* * *Something pulled on his feet. His descent was checked. He was cradled, the sea washing over him. Then he rose toward the rippling emerald pool of light, rising from the depths, from the awful liquid silence, from the buoyancy of death, into the clean sweet air, the churning of the waves. Gripped again by gravity, he coughed and retched sea water, his lungs working like bellows, automatically, independent of his brain, which was still fogged, in the coruscating quietude of the ocean, not yet ready to accept the return to life. Then he rose into the air, a gasping, wounded phoenix.

"So," Rikkagin T'ien said, nodding. "A Bladesman you call yourself." He stared hard at Ronin; at his face, at the muscles along his arms, at the deep chest. "A soldier you are, a tactician. Well. You are ill and the injury to your back is quite serious. My physician informs me that you will carry those scars for the rest of your life." He stood up, planted his bare feet wide apart, bending his knees slightly. Three men came into the room, swiftly, silently, all armed, and if he had made a move to summon them, Ronin had not seen it. "Yet a soldier knows one thing. He knows how to fight, so?" He beckoned Ronin to stand. "Come," he said in a light tone that held no overtones, no rancor. "Come against me."

A song in his brain. A song. It dominated his senses, filling the air with a smoky tang, washing over him like the sea. It was a singsong tide of voices, rhythmic, sleepy, and muscular at the same time.

Slowly, numbly he turned over. Dazed. He had been drowning, tumbling gracefully down, twisting on the currents. He stretched out his arms. And now?

He was looking down through the slimy web of a net within which he lay. Below him, the swell and suck of the sea against long wooden planks. Curved. His eyes traveled upward and a word forced itself into his brain. A ship, he thought dizzily.

Drenched and dripping, he swung perhaps thirty meters above the water. Above him, the ship rose another forty meters. Its immense side sloped outward near the bottom. The hull was painted a deep green from the gunwale until almost fifteen meters from the sea. From there down it was red. From the side of the vessel myriad square ports had been cut and from these jutted long slender staffs, it seemed to Ronin, cleaving the water at an oblique angle. A forest of staffs; on separate levels.

Two? Three? Staring upward, the sun struck his eyes and he vomited the last of the sea water before he pa.s.sed out.

"'Rikkagin,'" said Rikkagin T'ien, after Ronin had. for the first time told him thestory of the Freehold, "is a tide not dissimilar to that of Saardin, so?"

That had surprised Ronin because at no time since he had been brought aboard had he ever been disarmed, even when he was in the presence of Rikkagin T'ien.

Slowly he had come to realize that this was because they did not fear him.

Rikkagin T'ien beckoned to him and these thoughts flew through his mind like doves fleeing before a chill wind. What the little man said to him was true; he was not yet fit. Much of his strength had been sapped by his ordeal and it would be many days before he returned to good health. Yet he was a Bladesman and T'ien was again correct: he would have to prove himself.

He stood and Rikkagin T'ien bowed to him, a curious solemn gesture which he had sense enough to return. Two of the men came forward and, stooping, removed the low table from between them.

Slowly Rikkagin T'ien withdrew his sword, the light gleaming along the single slightly curved edge. Ronin withdrew his blade.

"Ah," said Rikkagin T'ien as if he had been holding his breath.

Heat. He sensed it even before he opened his eyes. The polyglot odors. .h.i.t him then: sweat and briny salt, tacky tar baking in the sun and aromatic pitch, fresh fish flopping in the warmth. The singing was in his ears and the deck rolled gently under him to its thudding tempo. Heat. Against his chest and cheek.

He was stretched out on the deck. The burning along his back had somehow lessened. He sensed movement around him. A shadow crossed his face and the heat lessened. He tried to rise. A hand, gentle, firm, stopped him and he obeyed, understanding now that someone was working on his back. He felt weak and drained, not even sure, if he were pressed, what reserves of energy remained within him. The situation was unclear. He had no idea where he was. On a ship. Just a ship.

With that came the thought of the mast on the felucca. Bend, he told himself. Bend or you will break. Thus he willed himself to relax in the midst of the unknown. Thus did he survive.

He closed his eyes and let the breath flow out of him completely until his lungs sucked in the air of their own accord. He repeated this, cleansing his respiratory system and energizing himself by oxygenating his blood. His eyes opened. He stared at Rikkagin T'ien. He forced all speculation from his mind.

The curving sword was a blur, flashing upward, and simultaneously Rikkagin T'ien screamed. Ronin parried the blow. Just. The intense sound had surprised him.

The clang of the blades echoed off the cabin's bulkheads. The rikkagin whirled andhis sword hummed in the air again, the force of the blow stinging Ronin's wrists.

Back burning anew, Ronin lifted his blade; it was as heavy as a drowned corpse.

Pain flared in his chest, making him gasp, and his guard dropped. Through the veil of agony, he saw Rikkagin T'ien advancing and, sweat rolling down his head and torso, he attempted to defend himself. Slowly, his sword came up, trembling. The end, he thought.

But instead of striking, Rikkagin T'ien stood as still as a statue, lowered his sword, sheathed it. The deck whirled, seeming to rise toward Ronin, and then he was in the powerful arms of the two men who had stepped behind him. They set him gently on a mat of rushes, carefully sheathed his sword.

Rikkagin T'ien's oval face hovered in Ronin's line of vision. He smiled rea.s.suringly. Ronin struggled to rise.

"Stay still now," said T'ien. "I have found out what I needed to know." He shrugged, a totally pragmatic gesture, free of any theatricality. "Do not regret your pain, Bladesman." His face was a great yellow moon planted in the sky. "You see, we saw your boat break up and your story was most convincing, especially with the evidence of your back. But still"-the moon waned before his eyes, blood pounded in his temples-"we are at war and I must tell you that my enemies would do anything to discover my plans. Please do not think me melodramatic; it is quite true.

And frankly the distinct possibility arose that you were in their employ." Pain was rippling through his chest, making breathing a labor. The moon smiled benevolently in the cloudless sky. "Rest now; you have proven your story; you are who you claim to be. Only a lifetime of training would have allowed you to come against me with three broken ribs." The moon wavered and broke apart. He strained to see it. "Now my physician is here. He will give you a liquid. Swallow it. He must set the ribs."

Then the moon went out and he was falling, falling.

The pa.s.sage of the days and nights were as puffs of smoke to him, blooming briefly, evaporating on a jasmine wind as if they had never existed; they were replaced by others, an ephemeral progression blending into a canvas of tonal colors, s.n.a.t.c.hes of sounds, watery whispers of almost heard words. Most of the time he slept deeply, dreamlessly.

When at last he sat up he felt the constriction of the bandages fastened tightly across his chest. Immediately, one of the men in the cabin went out The other leaned forward and poured tea from a clay pot into a small cup set on a lacquered tray. He held it for Ronin, who sipped gratefully until his thirst was slaked. He sat back and regarded the sailor. He had a sharp aquiline nose and a wide thin mouth. His deep-set eyes were blue. He wore an open shirt and wide-legged trousers. A scabbarded sword hung from his right hip. The cabin's door opened and the physician entered."Ah," he exclaimed, smiling, "you have had tea already. Good." He knelt and pushed Ronin gently down onto his back, his fingers moving deftly over the contours of the bandages. He was yellow-skinned as was T'ien, with almond eyes and a wide nose. He clucked to himself, then looked at Ronin. "It was a very bad fracture, yes. You were hit with great force." He shook his head as his fingers continued their probing travels. Ronin winced once and the physician said, "Ah,"

quite softly.

"He is better, so?" said Rikkagin T'ien from close by. Ronin had not seen him enter.

"Oh my, yes," nodded the physician. "Very. The ribs are knitting faster than I had antic.i.p.ated. A very fine body. As for the back"-he shrugged almost apologetically-"it will heal but the scars are forever." His face brightened. "Still, not so bad, eh?"

"So," said Rikkagin T'ien, addressing Ronin. "When you feel fit enough, you will come on deck. Then we talk." He turned and left.

"Give him as much tea as he wants. And rice cakes," instructed the physician before departing. And Ronin was left with the men. Soon he drifted off to sleep.

A dense and smoky tangle, it climbed into the hills. It spread upward and outward from the wide harbor, the sh.o.r.es of the yellow and muddy sea, in a jungle of one- and two-story buildings of wood, dark paint, brown brick. In many places they seemed set so close together that he could not tell where one ended and another began.

"Sha'angh'sei," said Rikkagin T'ien.

Ronin could discern movement along the vast front of docks and wharves thrusting out into the slowly lapping waves. Dark ma.s.ses milled like ants over an earthen mound; they were still too distant for him to pick out individuals. A peculiar haze hovered over the immense city, a component of its clutter and sprawl, obscuring its loftier reaches so that he had no clear idea how high the houses extended.

"Welcome to the continent of man." There was a harsh edge to the laugh.

Ronin tore his eyes away from the domination of the city and looked at the man who stood on the deck beside Rikkagin T'ien. He was tall and muscular with cerulean eyes and short-cropped thick blond hair. An ivory bar was run through the lobe of one ear. He wore a light-colored, loose-fitting shirt of silk tucked into tight black leggings. A long curving sword hung in a battered leather scabbard on one hip.

A wicked dirk of extraordinary length, its hilt studded with rough-cut emeralds, a rather nonchalant statement of their value, was stuck into his sky-blue waist sash.

T'ien had introduced him as his second in command: Tuolin."It was I who fished you out of the sea," said the blond man. "It was reflex, really. Most of the men believed you already drowned; you were under a long time."

Ronin shook his head. "I recall sinking, holding my breath, then darkness and a beating silence and then-"

Rikkagin T'ien called out an order and half a dozen men sprang from the deck, racing up the rigging lines. He turned back, observing them both.

"What happened to your back?" asked Tuolin.

"Have you been north?"

Tuolin shook his head, no.

"On the ice sea," said Ronin softly, "far enough south so that the water was already coming up on the ice, thinning it, a-some kind of creature broke through the crust and attacked us." Tuolin's eyes narrowed; he glanced quickly at T'ien, back to Ronin again.

"What kind of creature?"

Ronin shrugged. "I cannot truthfully say. The world, it seems, is filled with strange and monstrous things. In any event, the light was almost gone. It took us totally by surprise. There was no time for anything save death." The men in the rigging had reached the highest yards and they began to furl the topsails, using darting rapid motions. "It tore my friend in two; ate his legs."

They stood like three statues on the high p.o.o.p deck, near the stern of the ship. A soft breeze brushed their faces, the tentative touch of a reunited lover.

"You must understand," Rikkagin T'ien said, "that death means little to us here in Sha'angh'sei; it is our way of life." He peered up briefly. The men were returning down the rigging. "War, Ronin. That is all we have known; all we shall ever know.

Death waits for us behind every doorway, beneath every bed, down every dark alley of Sha'angh'sei." The ship began to slow as the command was given for the rowers to slacken their pace. "We would have it no other way."

"We have lost the ability to mourn for our dead," said Tuolin regretfully. "Still, I would very much like to know more of this creature of the ice sea."

"I am sure there is little more I can tell you," said Ronin. "However, I am most curious about this craft's mode of travel. If I could see-"

"The rowers?" said Tuolin. "I hardly think that you-"

"Tuolin," interrupted Rikkagin T'ien, "I do not think that under the circ.u.mstances we have much choice. It is a simple exchange of information." His eyes sparkled.

"By all means, lead us down to the rowers."

Tuolin's face had set into hard lines and ridges and Ronin wondered what he was missing in this dialogue. He understood only that he dare not interrupt.

It seemed as if there was no air and one had to take short breaths because of the concentrated stench but over all it was cleaner than he would have expected. Themen sat along low wooden benches, three to each oar. They were naked to the waist and the ridges of their working muscles along shoulders and backs glistened in the low light. They moved in perfect unison to the cadence of a drum and the rhythmic singing. Three tiers of men along three quarters of the length of the ship. He stopped counting at one hundred. They were dark-haired and swarthy, thick-boned and short, fair-skinned and fair-haired, yellow-hued and almond-eyed; a jumble of humanity, inhabitants of the continent of man.

"You can plainly see," said T'ien expansively, "that we refuse to rely solely on the inconsistencies of the weather. Canvas is fine when the wind is up, otherwise-" He shrugged.

They walked slowly down a narrow central aisle between the oarsmen.

"They are continually manned," T'ien continued. "The men work in shifts."

"They do not mind this work?" asked Ronin.

"Mind?" said Tuolin incredulously. "They are soldiers, bound to Rikkagin T'ien.

It is their duty. Just as it is their duty to fight and die if need be for the rikkagin's safety." He snorted. "Where is this man from that he does not understand this? He cannot be civilized, surely."

Rikkagin T'ien smiled somewhat absently as if he were enjoying some private jest.

"He comes from a long way off, Tuolin. Do not judge him so harshly." Tuolin's eyes blazed and for just an instant Ronin believed that he was going to turn on his rikkagin. "Teach him if he does not understand our ways," said T'ien placidly.

"Yes," said Tuolin, the cold light receding from his eyes, "patience is its own reward, is it not so?"

T'ien walked on and they followed, a pace or so behind.

"You see," said Tuolin, "we carry with us many moral obligations which we are taught to honor virtually from birth." A dark blur at the corner of Ronin's vision. "To be bound to a rikkagin has many benefits." Oblique approach, ballooning. "One eats well, one is clothed, one has money, one is trained-" And Tuolin had seen it too because even now he was moving, the long dirk no longer in his waist sash. There was a scream, disturbing the heavy air like a sudden breeze parting a velvet curtain, and the figure was upon them. Tuolin leapt forward, his dirk flashing in a savage thrust. The body, long and thin, sweat-coated, wielded a curving single-edged sword. The face was pinched, the mouth screaming, lips pulled back from rotted stumps of teeth in a rictus, the eyes gla.s.sy and bulging fanatically. Then the figure was spitted on the blond man's blurred weapon. The legs kicked violently and then the eyes rolled as the blade ripped through the naked chest, spewing forth blood and bone fragments. The man's sword clattered uselessly to the wooden boards.

Rikkagin T'ien watched impa.s.sively as Tuolin withdrew the dirk and with a deft economy of motion slit the man's throat. Ronin noted that T'ien had not even drawn his sword.

Now the rikkagin sighed and without looking at either of them said, "It is best if we return abovedecks." And stepped nimbly over the crumpled corpse.* * *

Sha'angh'sei loomed over them as they maneuvered the sea lanes clogged with vessels large and small and eased into the port. The ship plowed slowly through the thick sea, yellow-brown and clinging, past square-rigged fishing craft and high-sterned cargo vessels. Off to starboard, Ronin thought he could just discern the broad mouth of a river spilling into the sea.

He stood on the high p.o.o.p drinking in the city while all about him was movement as men raced through the catwalk rigging, reefing the last of the unfurled sail, securing yards and lines, the forest of oars high in the air, dripping and shining, as the rowers prepared to ship them. It lay before him in the inky twilight like a vast fat jewel, dusky and dim with age, smoldering with fitful movement, heaving itself from the spume and effluvia of the land.

The low buildings closest to him appeared to be built on a delta and he looked again for the river's mouth for confirmation but it was lost behind the thick clumps of buildings. Beyond the flat of the delta the city rose like the arched spine of a frightened animal and many of the dwellings in this area seemed to need the aid of wooden columns sunk into the hillside, which supported their jutting balconies, fluted and columnated, dark hardwoods gleaming in the smeary glow as lamps and torches were abruptly lit throughout the city as if by some prearranged signal. The deepening haze, sapphire and mauve, softened the flicker of the flames so that the individual sources blended and blurred and the city seemed to glow with an ethereal incandescence.

Ronin's pulse quickened. By chance he had come to Sha'angh'sei, and it was obviously a major port on the continent of man. Here, he felt confident, he would find someone who could unlock the riddle of the scroll of dor-Sefrith. The wash of light reached out for him as the ship maneuvered toward the waiting wharf. Perhaps, he mused, Rikkagin T'ien will know of someone.

Men swarmed along the long arm of the wharf in antic.i.p.ation of their arrival and Ronin, observing the frenzy of activity, felt the muscles of his stomach contract momentarily as his spirits soared. The continent of man: Borros had been correct all along. So many people here, such a teeming world; even now, though it was before his eyes, it was a shock; so long talked of, it was a dream world that had been an integral ingredient of the fantasy that had kept them alive with a goal as they flew across the featureless platinum ice for endless days and nights with nothing but the cutting wind and cold as their reality. This dream had kept Borros alive until the end, Ronin was sure; his body had been beaten and, save for this land beckoning him on, Borros' mind would have let go in the midst of Freidal's torture within the confines of the Freehold. And now: now I step upon the cluttered foresh.o.r.e of the continent of man. A dream no more.

There came a brief command and the ship touched the creaking timbers of the long wharf.* * *

There was an electric hum, the live-wire abrasive intensity of rushing bodies, the cacophonous atonality of voices raised in argument, laughter, command, the chunky slap of cargo continually being loaded onto ships ready to sail to other ports, unloaded from just-docked vessels, the brief slam of working doorways, the beckoning cries of vendors, the hit of hoa.r.s.e monotonous work songs, the crisp cadence of soldiers' booted feet, the clangor of arms, the tolling of far-off bells, a whiff of mysterious chanting, and, beneath it all, the heavy wash of the yellow sea lapping at the belly of the city, caressing it, washing its soil, eating its bedrock.

He stood on the wharf, an alien island in an ocean of moving bodies. The debarking soldiers pa.s.sed him in formation, elbowing aside the scurrying workers, bare-chested and barefooted, tattered pants rolled up their legs, sweat streaming down their laden backs, some bent double under their immense loads, others in pairs trotting with crates of foodstuffs suspended from bamboo poles supported on their shoulders. Overseers screaming their instructions, orders being barked, sellers frantically hawking their wares, bodies coming against him like breakers, sounds like waves beating upon the sh.o.r.es of his ears, engulfing him. He breathed deeply and his nostrils flared to the steamy air laden with the fragrances of man, the pungency of fresh spices and syrupy oils, the mingling of exotic perfumes and thick sweat, the briny scent of the sea, rich with the myriad animal flavors of life and death.

Tuolin found him eventually.

"The rikkagin will see you tomorrow in the morning." Caftans of silk and cotton, tight blouses over firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s, long earrings clashing softly. "He is most anxious to speak with you at length." Gold rings glinting, a wooden leg with a worn shoe stuck on the end, colored skirts swirling, armbands dully shining, flash of yellow feathers.

"Now he has many preparations to make and we could both use food and drink."

Carts b.u.mping, green eyes flashing, strange two-wheeled carriages pulled by toiling runners, dark hair floating in the soft scented breeze, music skirling. "Especially drink, eh?" Faces hidden by veils, faces covered with long beards, greased and curling, the savory mouth-watering perfume of roasting meat, a black and terribly empty eyeless socket, laughter, mouths gaping wide, black teeth, eyes crinkling, flash of dirk. "And afterward, a very special place, Ronin. Oh yes."

Along the sweep of the wharf the crowd thinned momentarily and Ronin was transfixed by a constellation of bobbing lights along the waterfront. Low, wide boats, some with makeshift shelters, most without, rocked gently on the evening tide.

Lanterns were hung, illuminating the occupants. Families crowded the vessels, men, women, scrambling children and screaming infants, old ones still as statues, all a.s.sembled now for the meal at day's end; sitting with cracked shallow bowls of rice close to their faces, eating with long sticks, throats working as if they were famished.

"Home for many people," said Tuolin. "Generations have worked on land and have lived on the ta.s.stans." Bodies closed over the view in an unwashed tide,blotting out all but the sea lanterns' mobile glow reflecting off the restless water.

They began walking again. "There is no room for them in Sha'angh'sei." Shouts and the sounds of running feet. "There never was."

"Yet they work here, do they not?"

"Oh yes." A scuffle beside them; coa.r.s.e curses, receding, drowned in the sea of bodies. "There is always work from dawn until dusk: for a copper coin which the merchants take at the end of the day, for the mildewed rice that they must eat. There is always work in Sha'angh'sei for a strong back, day or night. But nowhere to live."

Tuolin laughed abruptly and clapped Ronin on the back "But no more talk now. I have been too long from this city." He guided them skillfully through the jostling throng, moving at an increasing pace.

"Come," he called as he moved ahead. "We go to Iron Street."